


Playing the odds

by Bridie_Blue



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-05-31 02:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15109790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bridie_Blue/pseuds/Bridie_Blue
Summary: A business conference goes exactly as planned.





	Playing the odds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wildcard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildcard/gifts).



The conference runs tedious and long. Seto reaches for his second drink, a dark bitter mix that is served and selected from his private selection by one of his bodyguards. The hit of alcohol does little to dull his senses, few things do when held up to a sliver sharp blade. But it gives him the pretence of distraction, a moment away from the crude business on display to gravitate back to his own sense of self.

There are few things left in the converted ballroom to hold his interest, and certainly most of the company presidents in the room are too established to deal in fresh ideas and too fattened by their profits and comfortability to hold any kind of edge. Seto sneers at the latest rip off of Duel Monsters that is being proposed inanely by the pathetic shell of a man before him now, tolerating him merely because it is best to know his weaknesses now so he can save time having to undermine his little venture in the next few weeks.

Duel Monsters is not something someone can merely _replicate._ That this thing dares stand before him, warped in stolen ideas and tarted up in ill attained luxury when he is nothing more than a common thief...

In a handful of minutes Seto destroys a business and a man, all with a carstic turn of phrase and the heavy presence of his bodyguards. Shells crumble so beautifully, and while this one is stuffed fat with money and a predisposition towards cheap girls, it crumbles still beneath Seto’s foot.

Seto brushes past what is left (of the man, his business, of his world of ivory towers and shifting sands), and stalks deeper back into the ballroom. There are tables splayed throughout the room, crowded with suits and the briefcases. Seto has held centre stage at thousands of these things, giving talks about his latest projects, weighing up all that is new that dares encroach on his business.

Competition, no matter how small, either needs to be absorbed into Kaiba Corp or snuffed out.

A thousand conferences, and Seto knows all these bloated, sweat sheened faces and their supposed business plans that all seem to tinder on Seto’s good will. But there is one difference this month, and it is felt in the room by them all. It has been three months since The Black Clown burnt down, a business lesson to them all for how to not let the crazy sink too deep that it destroys their bottom line. They had all know ‘Mr Clown’, had seen the prototype for his pesky little game and the crack that ripped through his sanity. Seto had even had the displeasure once of being crowded against a pillar briefly by the man, madness glinting in his eyes as he ran his gaze up Seto, clammy hands squeezing down on Seto’s shoulders as he dragged himself up until they were face to face.

And then Mr Clown had been face to face with the floor, a mad cackle escaping through those scarred lips when he promised obliquely to do something that Seto had never managed to. 

Seto had never bothered trying to destroy that silly little game, there seemed no point when it was so clearly set for self implosion. The last Seto heard, Mr Clown is locked up in some asylum with flame retardant padded walls.

While the last shred of Mr Clown’s sanity may have died, the game somehow lives on with his son sashaying here in his place.

Seto knows of Ryuuji as well, of course. His mad father had paraded Ryuuji through these conferences over the last year on a figurative leash (and once, quite delightfully, on an actual one). Ryuuji is as broken in as he is broken down, a tool forged out of perfect hair and a deliberately mutilated face prettied up with mascara. Seto is deeply familiar with the blueprint that Ryuuji has been forged from, all revenge and bone deep grudges and not an ounce of actual soul.

Not that Seto cares so much for soul, especially not in the business environment where ideas and smarts rule supreme. But even here without his father Ryuuji plays out a caricature of blunt sexiness, all made up and sparkling eyes. 

It is a ruse that infuriatingly has its fans.

Ryuuji sits at the head of a gaming table, the latest portable version of his game playing out before them. They players and spectators spare little attention to the game itself, as Ryuuji commands the small group of drooling admirers with a pathetic parade of tricks that still somehow manage to draw leering eyes and large wallets into their twists and turns. Seto snorts as Ryuuji sweeps his hair back over his shoulders, drawing attention carelessly to the smooth expanse of nape and the easy flick of his wrist. Seto doesn’t doubt that Ryuuji has practised that move a thousand times in front of the mirror - he recognises the cynical clinicalness that only come from rote learning and the ever threatening presence of a whip. A sneer smears across Seto’s lips. While he has outgrown the world that Gozaburo tried to drill into him, stuffed them back in the book they were pulled from and then set them on fire, it appears that Ryuuji only exists as a series of left over ticks.

If Seto is to give Ryuuji any credit, it is this: he does the indecently sexualised teenager drag well. He even wears now his deranged interpretation of their school uniform: trousers a tad too loose so that they sit obscenely low on his hip, an oversized shirt that peaks suggestively out from beneath his school jacket and threatens to slip occasionally from his shoulders. Layers of makeup and mascara, and a pair of leather cuffs that they all know hides away scars from where his father likes to play ‘tie my pretty son up’ a little too rough.

Ryuuji presses a button on the small remote he is holding, and the box one of the company men is holding unfurls, revealing an activated monster piece within. There is tittering and patronising delight, and the predatory looks start to take on the green sheen of profit and exploitation.

Because their looks are all turned inwards, they miss the way Ryuuji’s gaze hardens slightly before relaxing back into the far more acceptable lightness that these men feel they can sink their claws into. Ryuuji needs their exploitation, now that his shop has burnt down and he lives in a tiny one bedroom studio rented from the last shreds of profit from his game. 

Seto has a passing interest in the game tonight, it is by far the only thing on display here that holds any kind of potential. When the latest sacrificial goat to Ryuuji’s business plan loses in minutes (and Ryuuji had to work hard to keep him in the game for even that long), Seto slips into the newly vacated chair. Ryuuji blinks across at him, but any other hint of surprise is swallowed up by a lazy, friendly smile. Ryuuji dips his head to the side, his hair sliding over his shoulder and the dice earring falling from his right ear swaying slightly. 

Seto isn’t impressed, even as a hushed silence falls across the group.

“It’s a privilege to have you join the game, Kaiba-san.” Ryuuji is all smooth silk, but a brief titter arises again amongst the spectators before Seto shoots it down with a glare. The lack of sincerity in Ryuuji’s tone is exactly what these simpletons wish they could throw at Seto, but they leave it to a temporary upstart. “Would you like me to explain the rules, I know how rarely you venture into games you don’t have prior knowledge of?”

“It’s a simple game, I won’t need the primitive rules explained to me,” Seto states dismissively. An almost childish annoyance slips into that emerald gaze, before Ryuuji flicks three dice into the air and his eyes become temporarily obscured. In the time they take to fall and roll across the table, all that is left of that gaze are sharp shards of glass. 

Seto leans back in his chair, already bored, as his bodyguards flank his chair on either side.

Seto loses the first game within five minutes.

It is ... unexpected. Seto does not do well with anything that doesn’t fit into his own personal plans, and the easy way Ryuuji looks at him over those infernal dice with a hint of a smirk lurking on his lips is enough to make Seto’s blood curdle.

“Go on, then.” Seto is curt, harsh. Ryuuji’s smile widens. “Explain these rules of yours.” 

Seto still loses the next round, but the unexpedly complex layers of the game slowly start to make themselves apparent as Ryuuji manages to twist Seto’s strong moves into timid ones with the roll of his dice. It is not the type of game one can play in absentia as Seto tends to do, getting distracted here means missing the subtle change in odds each move brings. 

This requires his attention. 

What ‘this’ is is perhaps up for debate. Seto knows better than to simply study the game before him, or to make mental plans for how it could be improved/where it may fit into his own plans for expansion.

It takes a particular mind - one pierced through will holes through which creativity can first atomise in then be sieved through - to create any kind of game worth holding Seto’s attention. He had thought this game had spun first from the twisted madness of Mr Clown, but Ryuuji’s fingers flick professionally between the different pieces, his eyes sparking with intent as he changes the odds with not merely a flick of his wrists but with a look. 

No. This game comes from a different kind of madness, ones crafted in the absent spaces that exist within Ryuuji.

Seto knows Mr Clown, and he knows Ryuuji. He has files and files on them both, ones filled with the most interesting kind of pictures and video clips that have been stored in case bribery or blackmail was required.

“Again,” Seto demands coldy when he loses their third game. He doesn’t watch the way the game is dealt out this time, instead allow his heavy gaze to fall on the deft way Ryuuji sets it all up and the glint of excitement that sparks in his eyes. He watches as all of Ryuuji’s deliberate edges slip just a touch as the game progresses and Ryuuji loses himself in each move, his focus moving away from all his tricks of the trade as he instead zeros in on the only part of Ryuuji that is of his own creation.

When Seto makes a strong move - clever and quick so as to nullify the unpredictable odds that Ryuuji is constantly trying to set in motion - the curious glance that Ryuuji darts across at him is almost disgustingly genuine.

Seto still loses, easily, but it takes longer this time and Seto has acquired new tools that have little to do with the game itself and everything to do with its creator. If Seto recognises within Ryuuji the damage that lies beneath then he is also beginning to get a feel for the creativity and interest that hides in the easy facade he wears. He catches himself watching for the light of anticipation when he’s backed Seto into a corner, the way Ryuuji’s ribs lift when he laughs in real delight at a move well played. He takes hold of the side glances Ryuuji throws when Seto thinks he isn’t looking, all hooded eyes and breathless curiosity. 

When Ryuuji reaches forward to remove the pieces, Seto snaps his hand forward and wraps his fingers around his wrist, holding him captive there. For a second Ryuuji is startled, but then Ryuuji smiles and those emerald eyes sear through Seto, seeing everything in a second and placing all of Seto’s cards on the table.

Seto’s answering smile is calcified cold, yet Ruuji barely seems familiar enough with heat to distinguish the change in temperature. Seto releases Ryuuji’s wrist but they both know it is too little, too late.

For a brief moment, Ryuuji has captured Seto also.

A dinky bell rings, a last minute reminder that the presentations are about to begin on the main stage. Seto and Ryuuji are the last to leave, and as Ryuuji stands he flicks three of the monster-enclosed dice at Seto, who catches them with a distracted glare.

“You can return these to me later,” Ryuuji says, eyes sharp and with a flirty smile that is heavy with a promise. “Maybe once you’ve had time to practice with them.”

Seto rolls his fingers over the dice, but says nothing in return.

The seats are all taken by the time their small group reaches the main speaking area. There is naturally a seat reserved for Seto at the front, but he has little time tonight for boring speeches. 

Oh no, he has a much more particular prey in mind.

Instead, Seto slips in at the back of the small crowd standing around the edges of the chairs, slides in behind Ryuuji and leaves his bodyguards two steps behind. 

“So nice of you to join us in the cheap seats,” Ryuuji murmurs, his gaze never once sliding from the stage in front of them. The confidence in his tone is unwarranted, brittle.

Breakable.

Seto is not a patient man, and the first speech is only three or four minutes in before he takes a step forward, swallowing up the small amount of personal space between him and Ryuuji. His breath catches on the shell of Ryuuji’s ear, and Ryuuji’s mouth tips upwards into a satisfied, knowing smirk. The businessman to Ryuuji’s left moves away slightly, although his heated gaze drifts to where Seto’s hand now sits in the hollow above Ryuuji’s hip.

“I think I know the rules of your game now,” Seto’s voice is low, although he hardly cares who hears. “And the currency in which you … trade … in.”

That causes Ryuuji to bristle just a touch, and that someone who is so drenched in sin thinks himself untouchable is laughable. Seto snakes one hand around Ryuuji’s waist, playing with the buttons of Ryuuji’s school trousers (so beautifully cynical, so manipulative to wear his uniform here amongst a throng of men who thrive off of pretty young boys) before flipping them open with his thumb. Ryuuji’s smile takes on a hint of unease, but it’s easy then to slip a hand down the back of those too-big trousers, fingers smoothing down the surprised expanse of bare skin.

‘I see you still don’t wear any underwear, your father would be proud.”

Seto smirks as Ryuuji’s breath hitches, that toxic ponytail bobbing as his a shudder runs through those thin shoulders before Ryuuji is able to somehow smother it away. There is doubt now slipping in, Seto can almost taste it in the air. Ryuuji has anticipated Seto’s interest, his touch and power plays. It would be hard to miss the way the tension between them in their game had taken on a subtle edge of attraction.

Perhaps Ryuuji had been foolish enough to think that he would have some say in how Seto would progress this. Ryuuji has always been a gambler, but these are odds that have never even threatened to fall Ryuuji’s way.

“You could take this elsewhere.” Ryuuji is smart enough to concede that turning this into an overt power battle will end poorly for him, but the flirty edge to his voice rings hollow.

“I won’t.”

And Ryuuji, Seto knows, will allow him everything. Ryuuji has invested completely in this - his business, his persona, his own private and hidden wants - and there is no space for misjudged steps.

A hint of laughter - no doubt hysterical - catches briefly in Ryuuji’s throat and is then gone.

“They can see you, by the way.” Seto presses the words against the shell of Ryuuji’s ear as his hand slides down, down. The businessmen on either side of them shuffle nervously, gazes intent on the stage in front of them but seeing nothing but Ryuuji in all his flushed, loose glory. “They’re wondering if they’re next in line, if maybe we’re going to play pass the dice all night long.” The businessman to their left coughs, a weak, wet pathetic type of cough that Seto punctuates by dipping the tip of one finger in past Ryuuji’s entrance. 

Everything about the other boy tightens - his breath, his shoulders, his tight arse around Seto’s finger. Amatuer. It is only when Seto withdraws it that Ryuuji breathe again, but if Ryuuji is so simple to think that Seto plays the same teasing games that Ryuuji does…

Well. Then Ryuuji deserves everything that gets.

When Seto’s fingers return to Ryuuji’s entrance, one of Ryuuji’s blasted cubes is held between them. He feels Ryuuji freeze as he first rolls the cube there before pressing it in, a dark delight in the way the cube catches and resists at each possible moment. And Ryuuji does gasp then, pain and shock and then _oh_ , just a hint of fear captured so beautifully on his startled hiss as Seto returns his little toy. Ryuuji makes to pull away, a frightened rabbit desperate to tear himself from the jaws of a wolf, damage be damned. There is no escape from this, however, and Seto clamps down on Ryuuji’s left hip and drags him back hard against Seto’s chest.

Seto denies or destroys everything that doesn’t fit perfectly into how he orders the world to be. And so, he denies the reaction that having Ryuuji flush against him brings, all lean muscle and captured breaths.

Destruction will come later.

“I wouldn’t recommend trying to leave.” The words are dry ice, a command that has stilled far, far stronger men than the wreck before him. And Ryuuji is now and always a wreck, no matter how pretty his paint job and finish is. Here, with his control stripped away and Ryuuji’s game called and matched it is easy to see how easy it would be to unravel Ryuuji right now. “You do have a reputation to uphold, after all.” The sarcasm drips with old money and mockery, but this is as much Ryuuji’s world as it is Seto’s. One wrong move here and Seto will destroy him. Beneath the layers of makeup Ryuuji manages to pale further, and Seto digs his fingers in deeper at his hip as the one inside his forces the dice further inwards, up. 

Ryuuji stays still, and Seto eyes narrow in. The next two dice slide in a touch easier, and Ryuuji has somehow regulated his breathing into short, almost silent breaths. 

Seto keeps him there, his grip only releasing once the very last speaker has droned through his speech. The moment he lets go Ryuuji pulls almost angrily from his grasp, buttoning his trousers and stalking away through the crowd without once looking back back. Ryuuji doesn’t care for the eyes that follow him, but his trip towards the bathroom comes to an abrupt end when one of Seto’s bodyguards steps in front of him and speaks calmly to him.

Ryuuji spins on his heels, hand on hip and cheeks still flushed.

Seto holds up the clicker that could so easily activate the dice now buried deep within Ryuuji.

From across the room those emerald eyes shatter. 

They meet in the corridor, and there is a new dullness in Ryuuji’s eyes, one twisted dark with resignation. He stands with one hand on his hips and his chin tilted up, but it is with a brittle bitterness rather than any true sense of strength. How stupid this boy had been to think that wrestling control of himself physically away from his father had freed him in any way whatsoever.

Seto presses Ryuuji hard into the wall, twisting Ryuuji’s hair around his fist and dragging his head roughly to the side as he drags his mouth down that pale, slutty neck.

“Pathetic,” Seto smears the word across his shoulder blades, pushing aside the material of his school shirt. “Cheap.” Ryuuji trousers end up around his ankles, and Seto sinks his fingers into the flesh of his arse. And _fuck_ if Ryuuji’s father hasn’t done a good job, because Ryuuji tenses so beautifully and the flush of a curse that is bitten down instead of spat out screams of the kind of deliberate, tempestuous submission that Seto can’t wait to devour.

“Now, beg me.” Seto is calm, cold, and for a moment Ryuuji’s gaze clouds over and Seto has lost him to another time and another man. That will not do. He clamps a hand around Ryuuji’s jaw, his thumb reaching up to smudge away the mascara/liner (whatever, like Seto cares) that runs in a vertical line down from Ryuuji’s eye and covers the crude, thin scar that was dragged into Ryuuji’s skin at some point with - hmm, Seto would guess from the ragged edges - a piece of glass. Ryuuji snaps back at that, startled eyes blown wide as they lock with Seto’s and the darkness gives way to pain. 

That slash of real emotion marks the first time Seto has found Ryuuji truly vulnerable, and this is what needs to be exploited.

“Beg me to remove them.” 

And Ryuuji does, in a robotic voice devoid of all emotion.

Seto does like it when the pretty ones are compliant, and Ryuuji is so very pretty once Seto has his pressed face first against the wall and Seto has three fingers clawed upwards inside of him, uncaring. Ryuuji arches back as his eyes scrunch shut in pain and his breaths exhale in a ragged, desperate mess. The shudders ripple endlessly through Ryuuji’s shoulders and down his back as the first dice is tugged, pulled, as it falls to the floor with a clunk. The second one sits deeper and while Seto thrusts in and up with three fingers, tries four - tearing Ryuuji’s head to the side so he can swallow each of those pained, horrified gasps for himself - there is too much resistance.

With an impatient sigh, Seto withdraws his fingers. He snaps his head towards his bodyguards. A small bottle is brought out and the bodyguard with the short, clean nails is sliding the lotion over their thick, scarred knuckles, down wide palms and stubby fingers. 

The bodyguard removes their watch, and slips it into his pocket. 

“I am rarely this generous,” Seto tells Ryuuji, chin tilted high as Ryuuji leans his head against crossed arms, desperately trying to regain his breath. It’s a pity Ryuuji hasn’t thought to look back, Seto thinks the realisation dawning in emerald would have been delicious to see. Still. “It would be best for you to remember this.”

Seto steps back.

The bodyguard steps forward.

By the time the third cube clanks to the floor, Ryuuji is a trembling, beautifully broken mess on his knees. His hair is limp, slicked through with sweat and knotted with threads of lotion.

Seto never does his own heavy lifting, so he leaves it to his bodyguards to manhandle Ryuuji against a nearby side table, splaying his legs wide and presenting him for Seto. Seto circles like a shark as Ryuuji struggles upwards, but all it takes is for Seto to push back down for Ryuuji to lose any semblance of stability. He shoves the back of Ryuuji’s shirt up, fingers trailing with mock tenderness along the thin, webbed scars that marr the pale skin. 

Seto is not one of the nameless businessman who Ryuuji has teased to completion at his father’s orders, slim hands wrapped around too eager cocks and a laughing mouth pressed in light kisses against the corner of smug, hungry lips. Nor does Seto care for Mr Clown’s own type of play, plying Ryuuji with a cocktail of praise, disappointment, and violence. Ryuuji is still beautiful, of course, all stripped down of pretences as he is coaxed to ride his father cock, and Seto would be a fool to pretend that he hasn’t gotten off on that particular bit of surveillance on multiple occasions. Ryuuji had slipped inelegantly into his father’s lap, hands clenched on grotesque shoulders as he lowered himself down onto his father cock. There had been a quiet plea of pain as it all became too much, yet all it had taken was a look of disappointment for Ryuuji to steady himself before pressing down, a broken cry tearing from his throat before he promised his father to be better, to be good.

No, Seto is none of that, and he is done with being polite. He loosens his belt, his trousers. He frees his dick, thick and so painfully needy that Seto despises for a moment that this piece of filth could elicit such want from him.

Only for a moment. In the next, he thrusts his dick in.

Ryuuji arches back, all shattered elegance as Seto’s next thrust breaches deeper, then deeper still. Ryuuji’s palms press into the side table as his body involuntarily convulses backwards, caught on the thickness of Seto’s dick as he never quite pulls out before thrusting in again. 

“Poor little prince clown, desperate for any kind of genuine connection.” Seto hisses the words against the nape of Ryuuji’s neck, drives deeper. “You would have given yourself freely to me, wouldn’t you?” Ryuuji is biting low on his lip, drawing blood. It’s only fair, because Seto is as well. “But why would I want anything that you have to _offer?_ ”

Seto comes then, joylessly but violently. Ryuuji slips bonelessly from the table, all heavy breaths and smeared makeup. All he wears now is his school shirt, but instead of allowing Ryuuji an ounce of dignity it sets off the tracks of semen dripping down the back of his thighs, the wanton slope of back.

“You can keep your little toys,” Seto says coldly, buttoning up his trousers. He enjoys Ryuuji like this, broken and at his feet. Crushed. Ryuuji’s shoulders still shake, and his eyes are hidden beneath thick clumps of hair. “I’m sure you’ll find some other use for them.” 

Ryuuji’s left hand claws at the marble flooring at that, defeat and distress and something much deeper. 

Ah, humiliation.

Poor, stupid pretty boy. How little he knows.

Seto stares down, eyes narrowed in disdain at the boy at his feet. He stays like that for 30 seconds, 40, allowing Ryuuji’s shame to crowd the hallway and for those harsh breaths to regain some sense of rhythm back. Then, with the tip of his boot he tips Ryuuji’s chin up. 

Interesting. 

While Ryuuji’s eyes shimmer wet, something remains still in the other boy to have kept the tears themselves from falling.

“I’m sure you’ll find a use for them,” Seto repeats, taking the cubes from one of his bodyguards before letting them roll over his fingers and drop to the floor beside Ryuuji.

Ryuuji flinches at the sound.

“Of course, if you want that little game of yours to succeed, we could look to make a deal here and now.“ Seto says it conversationally, enjoying the way Ryuuji stiffens, emerald green calcifying.

“You bastard,” Ryuuji hisses, his voice hoarse and shaking and so far removed from the perfect tone he puts on for all the other businessman. Seto doubts that Ryuuji ever spoke to his father like this, but then Seto likes to image that there were few moments between the two when Ryuuji’s mouth wasn’t wrapped around his father’s cock. “You sick, twisted bastard-” Ryuuji squeezes his eyes shut, looking younger here now than in his full school boy drag.

Seto smirks down, and he’s already hardening again as the horror swallows Ryuuji whole.

“Beg me to put them back in.”


End file.
